


Riannoc's Dream

by LukeVonCastiel



Category: Guild Wars, Guild Wars 2
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, the pact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukeVonCastiel/pseuds/LukeVonCastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trahearne should’ve know; naming an airship after Riannoc was a foolish thing to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riannoc's Dream

Trahearne laid a hand against the hull of the ship, felt the cool metal planes of its surface. Small curls and indents with the appearance of running rivulets decorated the expanse, lights installed beneath the designs to create the illusion of luminescent leaves; blue, green, red, and gold. The symbols were of his people, delicate and detailed.

"I spoke mostly in jest when I asked for this, mechanic," Trahearne said, though his voice was light. "You did not need to go to the effort this surely required simply to amuse a whim of mine."

"It was no effort Marshal Trahearne," the mechanic grinned, sharp fangs protruding at odd angles. "Crusader Evanon was most willing to draw the designs; you sylvari sure like your flowery whorls. And when ol’ Brown heard there was a chance for some detail work, well, you should’ve seen him. Damn near leapt right out of his armour he jumped up so fast."

Trahearne chuckled at the thought, eyes and hands still resting upon the airship. Though the sylvari were not overly fond of metal and machines, this particular vehicle was a work of beauty. Though at a glance one might not be able to differentiate it from other ships of its kind, a second look would yield the beauty of its craftsmanship; the panels layered like large steel leaves, the slight curves and indentations of the sylvari symbols. And at night the lights would surely glow, if turned on by its crew.

"It is beautiful, mechanic, and I thank you for your efforts in making a ship with a more ‘natural’ design, " he said, smiling openly. "And any work of yours must certainly fly well."

"Well I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but it certainly does," the charr laughed. "Any ship built by Meldclaw will stay in the air. Turns well too; its maneuverability is spectacular. I doubt there’s any Dragon Champion in the sky that could knock this beauty down." He bared his teeth in a smirk. "Got some nice cannons too."

"I look forward to seeing her off," Trahearne said. "No doubt she will be a major asset in our war against Zhaitain." He paused, tapping his fingers against the ship. "I’m thinking, perhaps, to send her forward to Arah, alongside a few smaller airships. If she flies as you say, she’d make an excellent scouting vessel, among other things."

"Eh, send her forward and I doubt there’ll be anything of Zhaitain and his minions left by the time the rest of the Pact catches up." Meldclaw tapped a claw against the hull, face aglow with pride.

"Now, mechanic, it does not do well to underestimate an Elder Dragon," Trahearne chided, "but she does instill a sense of victory, I confess. Looking upon her, I am almost certain of our victory."

There was a moment’s quiet then, as Trahearne thought of another. One who had filled him with the same sense of joy, of hope. A warm sense of belonging and safety, that flowed through every part of him and assured him. _'Good will always be victorious, beloved. I believe that, and more than anything, I believe in you.'_

He felt an ache within him at the memory of that voice; his voice. A voice he could no longer hear, though his heart still remembered all of it. The shifts in tone, its depth, the bright wonder of it.

"Marshal." Meldclaw’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head to look at the charr, who still grinned; inflated with joy at the glory of his creation. "She still needs a name." Trahearne blinked, eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

"And you want me…?"

"It’d be an honour, sir."

Trahearne looked back upon the airship and all her beauty; with his hand still resting upon her surface, he could feel its cold. Yet all she filled him with was warmth, and a bittersweet reminder of someone he could never forget.

"Riannoc’s Dream," he murmured, "for no doubt a ship as valorous as she will carry us to victory."

 _'For you, dearheart,'_ he thought, as he heard Meldclaw exclaim the name and nod his approval. _'Let us cleanse this land together, as you once promised me we would.'_  
  


~*~

Trahearne looked over the crowd before him, quelling the nerves that had built in his stomach. He had never been particularly fond at addressing crowds, but it was a part of his duty as Marshal of the Pact, and he accepted it alongside all his other responsibilities. He cast a glance toward the Commander, stationed near the front of the group. They gave him an encouraging nod, and he smiled, before clearing his throat.

"Members of the Pact!" He exclaimed. "We have gathered here today to say farewell to these grand ships, set to sail upon the air all the way to Arah! Their crews shall fly them into the dead city and quell Zhaitan’s Champions! They will make the Dragon know fear; make him know that we will not surrender! That we will not be conquered!"

As he spoke, the crowd cheered. Several norn threw up their hands and bellowed their approval, no doubt fueled by their hate for Jormag. Charr roared and humans shouted, and asura leapt high. The sylvari cheered triumphantly, faces aglow.

"This task is a dangerous one, but the brave crews of these ships are unafraid! Matches for this challenge! Neither they nor these vessels will ever bow before the Dragons, a lesson for those foul creatures to learn. So now, a cry for them all! For Riannoc’s Dream! For Lady Livia! For Whitebear’s Pride! For the Scorchrazor!"

The crowd’s cheers melded into a cacophony of noise, a sound so loud it would be no surprise if Zhaitain itself heard it seated on its throne in the City of Arah. The Commander lead the rallying cry, and Trahearne beamed, looking over at the airships as they took flight. From where he stood he could see Crusader Evanon saluting the group below, face full of pride as he stood on the deck of Riannoc’s Dream.

Trahearne too felt a glimmer of proud at the sight; he knew not to underestimate Zhaitain and his minions, but so too did he know the strength of the Pact. They were _his_ people, to protect and guide, and he would do so. He would, as best he could, lead them to all their impossible victories.

He laughed as the crowd gasped below, as Riannoc’s Dream lit up the sky for just a moment, as bright as the Grove in the darkness of night. Then they grew even louder; full of joy and inspiration. Full of hope.

_'Even now, your Dream is not over love. Even now…”_

~*~

Trahearne saw at his desk in Caer Aval. He twisted a quill between his fingers, reading over the forms below for a second time. A lifetime of paperwork had made the task less difficult; at the very least, he would not surrender to boredom as many others would. Strategies and supply routes, rations and complaints. Requests for attendance at certain Pact events, requests for leave, forms for joining. Among them sat stacks of research and ritual plans, information on risen sightings, camp construction, scout reports, and a large variety of other things relevant to the Pact.

It was while he worked he felt it; a sudden pang. He dropped his quill in shock, hand moving to his chest. He felt a strand of coldness, branching out through his form and twisting in his gut. It hurt and then grew numb, the throb of it surrendering to a cool darkness.

He bowed his head, burying it in his hands as he let the papers lie untouched. With the cloth flaps of his tent hiding his form from the others who worked, he let out a small sound. It was not quite a sigh, though it resembled one in many ways. It was a tired noise, a weary one. A sound of loss.

 _'I cannot be certain,'_ he thought, _'and yet I already am.'_

"Please Mother, prove me wrong. Please."

~*~

"Marshal Trahearne, sir!"

Trahearne turned from his task, moving one final figure on his small map of Orr before giving the distressed human his full attention. The woman’s face was creased with sorrow, her eyes shining with the promise of tears. But she kept her chin raised and her posture strong, as humans were wont to do.

 _'I already know what you' are going to say,'_ he thought, feeling the coldness curl inside him. _'Though I beg for you to say anything else.'_

"The airships have fallen," she said. "Lady Livia, Scorchrazor, Whitebear’s Pride, Riannoc’s Dream. All four were defeated by Zhaitan’s Champions while scouting."

Trahearne did not respond immediately, though he kept his face cool and calm. He had much practise at it, and it came to him naturally. He was the Firstborn, the destined Cleanser of Orr, the Marshal of the Pact. It was not his place to cry before those who followed him; who trusted him to be strong. Though often he wondered, sometimes aloud, at his ability to fulfil the tasks placed upon his shoulders, he never allowed himself to be overwhelmed, or mourn. Never, except once.

He would not weep now.

"Has there been a team organised to search for survivors?" He asked. The woman nodded.

"A small group of Whispers' agents were employed to search for any but…" she trailed off. Trahearne gestured for her to continue, a small wave of his hand. "There were none, sir. By the time the agents arrived at three of the crashes all the crew were already dead, and they witnessed the crew of the Scorchrazor being overwhelmed by the risen. They- they were unable to stop it. They were scouts, not soldiers."

"I understand," Trahearne murmured. "Were they able to burn the bodies?"

"Yes sir. They burnt all the bodies that could become corrupted. The sylvari they left. It was a risky action as it was; there was no time for sentiment."

"Understood. All the agents survived the trip there and back?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. I’d like to speak with them all soon; reward them for their efforts." He paused. "You’re Crusader Eddia Brown, yes?" The woman nodded. It was a small, solemn thing.

 _'Of course it is,'_ he thought. _'Her father is dead.'_ He walked to her, though he did not touch her, not even to comfort. He could see the slight trembling of her form as she struggled to remain strong.

"I am deeply sorry for your loss, Crusader," he said softly. "If you need time to mourn, I will allow it. Your father was a good man, a brave man. He will be missed." Eddia took a deep breath; shuddering as she inhaled.

"Thank you Marshal. That he was." She took another breath. "If I may, I’d like to remain on duty. I just need a night. Just one."

"Then you shall have it. I only ask you inform Agent Dorian outside I need the Commander. We will need to organise a second airship assault." She nodded, then left.

Once she was gone, Trahearne sat back down, slumped in his seat. He felt the numbness churning in his stomach, crawling up to wrap around his heart and push it into his throat. he shook his head and turned to his desk, pulling forth a blank sheet of paper and taking up his quill.

 _'To the Brown family,_ ' he began, but stopped. The letters were shaky, the handwriting wrong. It was not as a Marshal's handwriting should be; neat yet calm, without a sign of the sorrow he felt. He frowned and tried again, beneath it, and found the results the same. As he wrote he saw the faces of the dead; their smiling faces stained with tears.

Why were the tears gold?

Only sylvari had gold tears.

_Riannoc._

"Please no," he whimpered, covering his mouth with his hand. There were so many dead, so many still to die, and lying within the City of Arah lay the shattered husk of Riannoc’s Dream. He’d named it so, the valiant ship, and now its metal form was replaced in his mind with the one he remembered.

The first true corpse he had ever had to face. For all his necromancy it would never fade from his mind, the image.

_'I killed you again. I killed you again. I failed to save you, failed to protect you. Forgive me love, forgive me.'_

He could not stop his mind from wandering to his memories of that day.

~*~

Trahearne sat at a small desk on Claw Island, within its great walls as he read over his studies. At his side sat a young woman, barely an adult. She had introduced herself as Mira, and informed him that, at the request of Commander Talon, in lieu of fees for a ship to the coast of Orr, Trahearne was to share some of his research with her.

They sat in silence, the woman reading over some of his more legible notes as he waited for one of the Lionguard to inform him his ship was ready. It would only take him so far, then he would be forced to row the rest of the way on a smaller boat, but it was preferential to sailing the whole way himself. He worked as he waited, trying to take his mind of the churning in his stomach. Yet he could still feel it, the anxiety, the fear.

_'Riannoc, be safe. Please.'_

'How did you discover this?' Mira asked, pointing to a particular page. Trahearne glanced over, though she held it at such an angle he couldn't see.

"Discover wh-" he broke off with a sudden cry, falling from his seat with a clatter. The sounds around him dimmed as fierce and horrible pain shot through him, as if someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart. His soul felt as if it were bleeding, searing like a raw burn, a fresh wound. He could barely breath, choking on air as he tried to inhale and found that he couldn’t.

He clutched at the ground as the pain grew worse, and then suddenly it was gone. In its place lay an emptiness; something so terrifying and cold there were no words to describe it. It was as if someone had tore half of him away and left him, alive, with only what was left.

"No," he murmured. "No no, please, no. No no, Mother Tree no!" He scrabbled to his feet, face twisted in sheer panic. With nary a thought for his research, which he left with Mira, he took off toward the docks. He could feel the tears on his face, though none saw them but the norn he approached standing by their ship.

"Please, please, I need to go to the Grove! Please take me there, please!" He begged. The norn stumbled in shock, but did not ignore him. Trahearne did not know if he were moved by the tears on his face or the pouch of gold he pushed into his hand- all the money he had-, but he nodded to Trahearne and let him board the ship. Before he followed, Trahearne saw Mira place some papers in his hand.

He knew they were his research, but he could not bring himself to care. In that moment all he felt was the cold; that cold.

_'Please no.'_

~*~

He ran through the thick trees around the Grove, leaving the ship and the norn far behind. The trip had taken too long; so long. The whole time he had begged to be wrong, but even so the emptiness grew. It did not soothe his pain, simply magnified it.

With shaky legs he stumbled into the Grove, his home, and ran to the Pale Tree. He clambered up to her chamber and froze. There she stood, his Mother, but her glow was dim, her face solemn. Around her stood all the Firstborn, save Malomedies and-

"No," he whispered.

At her side stood Aife, her forehead creased and face bowed, and with her Niamh, whose shoulders hunched as she wept openly and fiercely. By her was Faolain with an arm around Caithe, her own tears flowing over her cheeks. Caithe did not weep, but her eyes were closed and her face taut. Dagonet held Kahedins, who whimpered and sobbed. His other firstborn brothers and sisters stood with tear-stained faces and trembling forms.

"I am sorry, my son," the Pale Tree said, her voice full of sorrow. "Riannoc is dead."

"No," Trahearne whispered again. "No."

"Brother," Aife said, but Trahearne did not hear her. For he was no longer Trahearne, eldest of the Firstborn. No longer was he their elder brother, there to comfort and guide them to soothe their souls. How could he, when he was no longer certain he even had a soul?

"No."

He turned from the Pale Tree and fled, all the while words and voices danced in his had. He ran through the Grove and out into the wild expanse of Caledon. He could hear his voice, laughing, shouting, smiling.

_'I promise I will return, we will return. All will be well, beloved. The good will succeed, the wicked will fall, and I will return to you as I always have.'_

He paid no heed to the burning in his limbs or the hunger in his belly, only falling to his knees to drink from a stream once before he pushed himself onward. To Lychcroft Mere where surely he stood; where surely he waited by the corpse of a lich, with Caladbolg in his hands and Waine at his side, searching for a flower to present to Trahearne.

_'I heard there are flowers in Lychcroft Mere, flowers more beautiful than any other. I promise I will return with one for you, and you know I never break a promise once it is made.'_

He did not feel the sharp stone slice into his foot, nor did he feel the bleeding as he ran into the swamp. He did not hear Caithe cry out behind him, his sister who followed him into the mire. Who had followed him through Caledon.

He felt nothing, he heard nothing, he saw nothing but the corpse half buried in the swamp. It was a mutilated thing, stomach and chest torn open and innards trailing through the bog. Limbs sliced open and shredded, face scratched to ruin. Surrounding it was the stench of death; of rotting decomposition. The scent of risen danced on the air, but not strong enough to deter him as he fell to his knees at the corpse’s side.

He cradled its head on his knees as he wept, his own tears mixing with the golden stains on the dead one’s cheeks. He rocked, backward and forward, over and over, trying to find some solace. There was no sign of Caladbolg, there was no sign of Waine; though if the boy did perish there was no doubt he rose again as one of the risen.

He sobbed and held his dead beloved, and thought of their last words. He had warned him not to go, but let him, believed in his words, his will, his strength. He had failed to protect him, should have accompanied him, should have been at his side. And now he would never be at his side again. Never again.

"Trahearne," Caithe said, her voice gentle. "Trahearne please." Her hands pried at his arms, attempting to pull the corpse from him. But he shook his head and clung to it. "Please, Trahearne. I have lost one brother. Do not make me lose another to grief. Please. _Please_.”

"Caithe, he’s…he cannot be," he said, then finally let go. Caithe pulled the body from his arms and laid it on the ground. It sank, further still, into the bog. "We cannot leave him here."

"The swamp has claimed him, brother, and we cannot take him," Caithe said, then placed a hand on his shoulder. Trahearne turned to her then, and saw a single tear on her pale face. "Mourn at the Grove, brother, mourn with Mother. We cannot mourn here."

"No, Caithe, I must mourn here," he whispered, standing on weak legs. He looked at her single tear once more, and knew. _'I cannot mourn among you, not again. I am the eldest of the Firstborn. I am the bearer of the Hunt to cleanse Orr. I cannot weep on your shoulders; cannot burden you with my grief._

"Trahearne-"

"If he cannot come home, I must bury him here," he said, searching for a stone. "Then I will go home."

And so he did. He buried Riannoc in dirt and swamp, and stones. He did not know how his people should bury their own, so he took from what he knew of Ronan and placed stones upon his grave. Then he found a leaf, bright in colour, and carved into a symbol. A symbol for Riannoc, valorous Riannoc, bright Riannoc, noble Riannoc, and placed it on the stones.

Then he let Caithe bind his injured foot, and ate, and returned to the Grove, with all tears and grief gone from his being. Buried with Riannoc, as his heart was too.

~*~

Trahearne inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked down again at the letter before him. The paper was stained with a single wet tear. A single tear for the fallen, a single tear for the dead.

A single tear for Riannoc’s Dream.

_'If I had warned you better, then you may not have died. If I had not been foolish, then your ship may not have fallen. Oh how I fail you, beloved. I am so sorry, Riannoc…'_

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before we were informed that the 'sudden loss' the Firstborn sylvari felt when Riannoc died was not an 'empathic' Dream-induced one, but normal emotions regarding loss. Still, I prefer my version (such arrogance, hah).


End file.
